


Running Away (You Left Me Out Of My Mind)

by SublimeDiscordance



Category: Pacific Rim (2013)
Genre: Angst, Becketcest - Freeform, M/M, Sibling Incest, This apparently became a twoshot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-15
Updated: 2014-07-21
Packaged: 2018-02-04 19:53:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1791151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SublimeDiscordance/pseuds/SublimeDiscordance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dying doesn’t end up being the worst thing that’s happened to Yancy Becket.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. What You Left Behind

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies, this is rather angsty. It's getting its own story because it was born of my brain and without a prompt. Unebta'd, so forgive any errors or eccentricities. As I said on tumblr, "Because it’s been a shitty couple of days. Suffer with me."

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a heart is broken.

Dying doesn't end up being the worst thing that's happened to Yancy Becket.

Well, only  _technically_  dying, if one wants to get nitpicky. Washing up on an Alaskan beach, barely alive, drivesuit stripped away by the relentless assault of the ocean, only to have his heart stop several times on the operating table as a legion of doctors attempt to repair the internal damage done when he'd been thrown into an iceberg by a kaiju all sure  _feels_  like dying. And it sucks. Even after he wakes from the four-week coma, the last two weeks of which hadn't been medically-induced, he still feels cold all over no matter how many blankets he tries to wrap around himself, no matter how hard he tries to remember his life before the moment he woke up. 

He can never get warm. Dreams of frigid black water surrounding him, pushing at his mouth and nose and ears and eyes, fighting to get in, worming its way down his throat and crystallizing his lungs until everything  _burns_  from the cold--like a thousand knives being driven into his brain and chest all at once. He will wake screaming, shaking, a name he doesn't know--can never remember--on his lips as tears pour down his face and he asks,  _begs,_ for them to make it stop, to just bring the other name back, just _let him remember_. The nurses, orderlies, and occasional doctor all holding his thrashing limbs to the bed will all shake their heads at one another sadly, their expressions not changing even as the needle pricks his skin and the syringe empties itself into his veins.

It never helps. It just brings the black water back. He'll be right back there again, chest frozen, endless babble slicing his vocal chords until they thrust his mind back beneath the strangling, inky darkness with their plastic-metal-pain sleep. 

It takes him nearly a year before he can even remember anything except the water. 

He remembers a name. Specifically,

_'Raleigh, listen to me--'_

that.

Raleigh. The name feels like... something. Important, somehow. It drives away the cold from his chest, settles a warmth behind his sternum he doesn't remember ever feeling before. 

For the first time, he doesn't wake screaming. His arms, legs, fingers and toes--everything but  his chest--are all still too cold, can never seem to get warm, but at least he can  _breathe_. He gets moved after that, to a new room on a different floor. It looks the same, except the curtain that surrounds his bed here is a dark blue instead of the near-neon green-blue from before.

When they close him in for the night, trying to give him privacy, he can't hold back the screams. The bone-deep panic that clutches at his chest. The whimpers of ' _Raleigh, please Raleigh, please, Raleigh, listen to me, help me Raleigh, please, help me--_ '. The knowledge that springs, unbidden, to his mind that he's  _dying he's going to die here he's going to_ die  _here oh god I'm so sorry I don't want to leave you please help me save me can't save me too late going to die_.

His entire body seizes so hard in terror that night that he actually throws up. Continues until his stomach is empty of what little he'd managed to finally eat that day. Continues after that, dry-heaving and forcing up something vile-smelling. Continues even when that dries up, spatters of blood forcing themselves into the outside world. 

They don't move his room again, but the curtains are gone the next day. Bright, white ones replace them the day after, small, multicolored outlines of dogs racing each other over the surface. He dreams of the dogs that night, of blue eyes--blue like the sun-filled sky--gazing into his own, capturing his stare and holding it until he has to blink or else he'll fall off the edge of something, something important, something _right there_ but  _not there_  just out of reach like the last wisps of a dying candle's flame. 

The days start to blur together, one long vacillation between nightmare and warmth and nightmare and warmth until he's no longer sure which is which and all he knows is that one name and that it means something-- _meant_ something--to him. 

It takes him nearly two years more before he remembers a face to go along with the name. But the face he remembers is smiling, teeth sparkling amidst a backdrop of  _blue gold blue_. He can taste those teeth as they nip as his tongue, can  _feel_ them dig bruises into his skin that send sparks racing along his spine. 

He remembers the lips that surround those teeth, remembers them wrapped around his cock and teasing,  _always teasing, Rals, gonna be the death of me kiddo_. Remembers spilling into that mouth, greedy tongue lapping him clean even as he twitches and shudders in the wake of oblivion.

Two years after that, he actually sees the face. On the television playing in his room in the ward.  _Heroes Save World From Kaiju Threat - Breach Closed_ reads the text that scrolls along the bottom of the screen, four rangers--three men, one with his arm in a sling, another with his leg in a cast, and one woman--standing proudly together as cameras flash and people shout their names.

Raleigh is among them, standing in the middle with the woman on one side and the redheaded man with the covered leg on the other, the last man standing apart from them, on the redheaded man's other side. 

The memories rush back in at the sight of that grinning face, so close to the one he remembers yet, somehow, so very different. Warier. Older.  _Wearier_.

He remembers days spent running after Raleigh-- _his younger brother_ \--as children, chasing each other through cities and forests and innumerable other landscapes, heart flying. 

He remembers nights spent curled together in confusion, eyes running like rivers against his chest, questions of  _why did he leave why would he do this what are we gonna do_ drifting between them as Yancy-- _his name is Yancy_ \--forces himself to hold his sobs within the confines of his chest. He remembers the burn of tears at the corner of his own eyes, remembers physically restraining himself from blinking so that they wouldn't fall and draw his brother's attention.

He remembers the first time they came rushing together, colliding like two planets that'd been slowly spiraling inward. The ghost drift whispering between their minds. Their souls ignited like two sparks in an endless night that caught on each other and burned, banishing the oppressive blackness--if only for a little while. He remembers the feeling of his brother entering him, hot and hard, the stretch only fueling the flames that exist between, through, within them both. Remembers the feeling of spilling within Raleigh's willing, pliant body, the other man's release coating them both the way it'd painted Yancy's soul not even an hour before.

He remembers  _Raleigh_ , his brother-lover- _everything_. He remembers his reason.

He's checked himself out within hours. Bought a ticket to Hong Kong on the next available flight. Is in the city, staring up at the Shatterdome's gates fewer than thirty six hours later. 

Sneaking in should be difficult, but none of the guards seem to really be on duty. All around him, everyone is celebrating, completely oblivious to the haggard, ghost of a man wandering amongst them. Yancy cares little for them, heart aching to find his brother, to find  _Raleigh_ , to hold  him in his arms again and be held in return; to banish the loneliness that has haunted him all these years, held at bay by nothing more than the memory of a name and a face. 

Familiar laughter catches Yancy's attention, and he turns towards it instinctively, body seeming to orient itself in the direction of his brother--he could never forget that laugh--by muscle memory alone once the younger Becket is within his sight. 

And freezes. 

Raleigh has his arm wrapped around the redheaded man from the TV, the one with his leg in a cast, and is laughing to the ceiling at something the other man has said, as evidenced by the smirk on the man's freckled face. As Yancy watches, his brother leans down, breathless, and nuzzles at the man's cheek before planting a gentle-- _always so gentle, kid, you're not gonna break me_ \--kiss on his lips.

A heart freezes.

A breath is drawn in an held.

Eyes burn, though he doesn't know why.

Everything seems to be moving too fast.

It's only when he knocks someone over that he realizes it's because he's running. Running for the exit of the Shatterdome, running away from his brother, because, clearly, he doesn't belong here anymore.

"Oi, what's the rush, mate?" asks a deep voice, a hand landing on his arm. Yancy looks up to see Hercules Hansen, looking worse for wear but alive, the older man's eyes widening as he takes in his face.

"Yancy?"

"Please don't tell him," is all the blond says, _begs_ , lowly, before he wrenches his arm out of the older man's grip and keeps going. He ignores the cries of his name from behind him, doesn't know where he's even really planning on going. All he knows is that there's something hard and cold spreading through him, fingers digging deep into his chest; that his brother doesn't need him anymore.

What he doesn't know is what to do about it.

So he runs.


	2. The Truth, This Time

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...but that's not to say that it stays that way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ASK AND YE SHALL RECEIVE. SOMETIMES.
> 
> unbeta'd and written at 2:30am in literally 40 minutes. sorry about that. I've been having a really hard time writing lately and this just... popped out.
> 
> For the record, the story's and chapters' titles all come from the OceanLab song "Come Home": _Running away from the truth this time / I wish that you knew what you left behind / When you were running away, and you left me out of my mind..._

The room is spinning pleasantly—almost nauseatingly but not quite—when Raleigh finds him. It doesn’t make him feel any better. Doesn’t dull the stabbing needles of ice in his chest as his brother’s smiling face, his _laughter_ , all echo and resonate against each other within his mind. Doesn’t stop the memories from nearly overwhelming him— _that smile directed at him, a noisy yet musical laugh painting the ceiling at something Yancy’d said; the same laughter spilling over his too-tight skin, Raleigh burning,_ molten _, within him, while knowing fingers sought out his ticklish spots_ —or the way his vision blurs at the edges in a way he knows has nothing to do with the alcohol.

The place stinks of piss and despondence and murdered dreams, and it’s perfect. The bartender hadn’t even really looked at him, had just gotten him his drink when he’d ordered in what little broken Mandarin he could remember. He’d already downed eight, maybe ten, maybe fifteen—he’s not quite sure actually—shots by the time Raleigh had walked in the door, redhead in tow. By Yancy’s estimate, he’d been there _maybe_ ten minutes, twelve if he were feeling generous, so he’s well aware the alcohol hasn’t really had time to hit him yet.

A part of him wonders how, exactly, Raleigh’d found him so fast. At least, until he feels a phantom tugging sensation at the corner of his temple, feels something warm and _writhing_ spawn in his gut that is unfamiliar and not his own.

 _Ghost drift_ , his mind whispers to him, his brother’s eyes boring into his own.

The anger is not unfamiliar.

The silence is almost a welcome reprieve from the chaos within his own mind.

The words—“Why didn’t you say anything? Why didn’t you come _find me_ , Yance?”—don’t break said silence with all the answer they manage draw out of him.

After all, words aren’t needed, are they? Just one quick glance at the kid standing behind his brother and a too-quick-too-fast blink that he knows Raleigh will interpret—correctly, because they’re Raleigh and Yancy fucking Becket—as meaning something.

Raleigh looks back, brows scrunched.

“What, Chuck? He’s—”

And, no, Yancy thought maybe, _maybe_ , if it came to this, he could deal, could stand to hear the words— _my boyfriend, my_ something—but he can’t. As he tries to walk between them, past them, _away_ , _anywhere but here_ , two pairs of hands take hold of him, one on his arm, the other around his waist.

“Yance, don’t, I swear, I never—”

The bucking of his shoulders effectively cut the words off.

“Rals, you don’t have to—”

“Would you just _listen_ to me for once in your _fucking life_ , you stupid, _stubborn_ —”

Yancy’s not sure how he manages to get both of their grips off of him. He’s not sure how he manages to make it to the door. He’s not sure he’s not sobbing the whole way.

The only thing he is sure of is that Raleigh grabs him—the ghost drift tense and alight between them, even after all this time, as familiar fingers wrap around his bicep—and hauls him back. Pulls him hard into his chest.

Tips his head back and kisses him. Right there. In front of everyone. In front of his _boyfriend_.

It’s too much.

Yancy’s not sure of much else after that. Nothing beyond the whispered words of, “Why can’t you just listen like a normal person, Yance?” that follow him as unconsciousness claims him.

 

 

When he wakes, it’s to two warm bodies cocooning him and a screaming bladder, the familiar walls of a Shatterdome surrounding him. He slowly disentangles himself from both sets of arms and legs, managing to stumble into the en-suite bathroom just in time to plonk down on the toilet, head in his hands, and try to swallow back the cold that’s taken to trying to crawl up his throat. He emerges once he’s sure he’s not going to wake up—pinching himself hadn’t worked, and neither had biting into the meat of his hand until he was almost drawing blood—and finds that both Raleigh and Chuck are awake and looking at him. His brother raises an expectant eyebrow, patting the rumpled space between them, as Chuck does much the same. He looks warily between the two of them, some part of him insisting that this can’t be real, that this is just his fractured mind playing tricks on him, that he’s probably still at that bar, passed out and dreaming or—

“Stop it, Yance. I can hear you still, you know.” Raleigh taps a finger to his temple. “I always have, I think. I just thought it was a piece of you that got left behind or something, but now…” A shrug. “It kept me going. Telling myself that at least I wasn’t completely alone. That, no matter how bad it got, I always had some small part of you still there with me.”

The ice in Yancy’s throat melts as heat rushes in to replace it.

“Then why did you—”

“Your brother never stopped loving you, mate.”

The words, tinged with an Australian accent and coming from Chuck, silence Yancy more effectively than a punch to the gut. Chuck, though, is apparently not done.

“He has nightmares most nights about, well, you. Has days where even I can’t get his sorry arse out of bed. So, yeah, we’re,” he pauses, eyes rolling over the ceiling as if looking for answers there, “ _together_ , but I promise ya, you’re the one who he still really lov—”

“No!”

It takes Yancy a moment to register that it’d been Raleigh who’d spoken, and that his brother is now staring intently at Chuck.

“I love you Chuck, I do. Don’t you dare think I made that up.”

Red-brown eyebrows come together.

“But y’love—”

“You both.”

Time stops. Yancy’s sure his heart can’t be beating, is sure his lungs have stopped working, because that can’t be right. There’s no way it’s right. There’s no way he heard his brother say—

“I love you both, and you can both deal with it. Or not. It’s up to you.”

The glare Raleigh’s giving them both is challenging but also pleading. Yancy can read the meaning behind it easily enough: _please don’t leave me again_.

And Yancy? Yancy’s never been able to say no to his brother.

He’s pretty sure he hears Chuck murmur something about teenage dreams coming true, which earns him a laugh from Raleigh, and that’s a story that Yancy wants to hear later, but for now he leans up to claim his brother’s lips in a kiss, simply because  he _can_ , and he nearly melts when Raleigh returns it with fervor.

The kiss Chuck gives him after that is a surprise, though, Yancy finds, not an unwelcome one.

As he lays back down, fragments of his mind still spinning about one another, slowly knitting themselves back together like broken bones, he lets himself think—if only for a moment—that maybe he’s not dreaming. Maybe this is real. It’s only when both Raleigh and Chuck punch him lightly in the shoulder, a grunted, “It’s fuckin’ real y’septic. Shut up and sleep,” rolling past his ears, that Yancy realizes he might’ve spoken aloud.

“Oh my _god_ , yes, you’re thinking out loud, fuckin’ _shut up_.”

“Don’t mind Chuck, Yance.” That musical, whispered laugh is back at his side; where it belongs. “He really needs his beauty sleep.”

An indignant squawk is the last thing Yancy hears before he falls back asleep, smiling.

 

 

A year later, when the three of them make the decision to leave the PPDC and find their own way, Yancy pulls Herc aside as he’s helping them move into their new house, Max whuffing and snuffling at the new space about their ankles. The Marshal—and, god, Yancy’s pretty sure Herc is still more weirded out by that than he is—has about two seconds to give him a confused look before Yancy’s wrapping him in a hug.

“Thank you,” he whispers into his father-in-law’s ear. “Thank you.”

“For what, kiddo?” comes the bemused response. Yancy’s well aware that they’re all used to him sometimes having…moments. He mind isn’t completely glued back together yet, so some days are still tough.

This, however, is not one of those moments.

He pulls back, arms still on Herc’s shoulders, before taking a deep breath.

“For not listening to me.”


End file.
